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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27093175">Those three little words - alternate first utterances of "I love you" or approximations</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poutini/pseuds/Poutini'>Poutini</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Schitt's Creek</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Do not read in public, Fluff, M/M, Will write porn for poutine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-09 03:28:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,451</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27093175</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poutini/pseuds/Poutini</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the tin, folks.</p><p>Another self-indulgent, let's riff off canon again kind of fic.</p><p>Most chapters will be standalones, but I do what I want, so pay attention to the descriptors.</p><p>Chapter 1 - rated G<br/>Chapter 2 - rated G<br/>Chapter 3 - rated E<br/>Chapter 4 - rated G<br/>Chapter 5 - rated G<br/>Chapter 6 - rated E<br/>Chapter 7 - rated E<br/>Chapter 8 - rated G<br/>Chapter 9 - rated M? ish</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Patrick Brewer/David Rose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>185</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>258</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Grad night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>They kissed</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick touches his lips, still tingling from where David’s soft mouth moved against his own.  He rubs his chin, where there’s the chafe from David’s stubble.  He catalogues the feeling, relishing the already fading reminders of what felt like first kisses were supposed to feel like.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick feels a rush of pride and a swell of affection as he watches David walk up to the motel room door.  His heart surges with a desire to hold him - precious, in his heart, and in his hands.  This feeling is wholly new, unlike anything he had ever felt with Rachel, and it burns bright inside him.  Patrick can’t help but grin when David turns around one last time, flashing a toothy smile of his own before opening the door and stepping inside.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not yet sure, and it’s equal parts frightening and exciting, but Patrick thinks this feeling might have a name, and he dares to utter it quietly as David disappears from view into room 8.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I might love you, David Rose.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. What if the night of the BBQ ended like this?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Mr Potato is currently sick in bed (on the PRECIPICE of meeting the criteria for COVID testing for the second time in three weeks, fuck) and I am feeling super burnt out and angry about work, so this ended up a little more angsty than normal.  </p><p>Thanks for reading!  All the lovely comments make me smile!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Patrick fills a plate full of sliders and sides, hands it off to Stevie, tells Rachel they’ll talk in the morning, and makes a hasty exit to his car, tears already blurring his vision.  He sits in the driver’s seat for just a moment, trying and failing to catch his breath, before deciding he’d rather have a panic attack in the comfort of his own room at Ray’s than sitting in the parking lot of the motel.  He wipes his eyes, slows his breathing, and puts the car in reverse. </p><p>Patrick is relieved that Ray’s car is not in the driveway.  He’s even more relieved to find a note on the kitchen island explaining his absence and expected return the following morning.  At least Patrick can break down in peace.  </p><p>By 11 pm, He has cried more than the aggregate volume of tears he’s shed in the previous 20 years.  His eyes burn, his throat feels desiccated, and he’s gone through nearly an entire box of kleenex blowing his nose.  The dirty tissues have piled up on the floor beside the bed and he can’t bring himself to care.  If there’s any consolation, it’s that he’s also now completely exhausted, and should have no difficulty escaping into sleep.  </p><p>Patrick kicks off his jeans, strips off his sweater, and crawls under the covers.  But his skin itches with discomfort.  He’s too hot, then too cold.  His legs want to kick with frustration. His fingers twitch and he tries to resist the urge, but he can’t help but reach for his phone to say just <em> one more thing </em> .  After all, he couldn’t possibly make this <em> worse </em>, right?</p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
    <span class="header">David Rose</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>Today</b> 11:07 PM</span><br/>
<span class="breply">I’m so sorry.  Take all the time you need.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">I’ll wait as long as it takes.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time">11:31 PM</span><br/>
<span class="breply">I love you</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p>Patrick stares at his phone, unblinking for ten minutes, willing a response to appear.  Seeing none, he plugs his phone in and shuts off the lamp.  </p><p>***</p><p>There’s a soft knock at the door.  Just loud enough to cause Patrick to wake up, but not loud enough that he knows the cause of his consciousness.  There’s a sliver of moonlight coming in through the gap in the drapes.  It’s very late.  Or maybe very early.  </p><p>Another knock.  Patrick’s sure he heard it.  Or something rustling on the front porch.  He pads downstairs, scrubbing sleep from his swollen and aching eyes.  </p><p>Out of misanthropic-Torontonian habit, he checks the peephole, and a small gasp escapes his lips when he sees David on the other side.  David looks <em> rough </em>.  If ever David Rose was a sight for sore eyes, this was it.  Patrick can’t open the door fast enough.  </p><p>“<em> David </em>,” he breathes out on an exhale.  </p><p>David’s chewing on his bottom lip nervously.  “I’m sorry it’s so late. Can I...come in?”</p><p>Patrick steps back to let David in, closing the door behind him.  “Living room?” he suggests.</p><p>David’s fidgety.  “Can we go upstairs?”</p><p>Patrick nods, extends one hand to David, who takes it hesitantly (<em> oh, thank god) </em>, and they head upstairs.  </p><p>Patrick sits cross-legged on the bed, while David appears to be possessed with nervous energy.  He paces back and forth, pausing as if he will speak, then...nothing.  Finally, he stops in his tracks.  “Stevie says I’m an idiot.”</p><p>“David, you don’t - “</p><p>“No.  I think she’s right.”</p><p>“O-okay.”</p><p>“You <em> outright told me </em> it was your first time with a guy.  I <em> should have realized </em> that meant there was a disgruntled ex or two out there.”  With a flourish of his hand, David tries for some levity.  “I mean, <em> look at you </em>.”</p><p>Patrick scoffs gently, shaking his head.  “Just one, David.  Just the one.”</p><p>After nearly wearing tracks in the carpet, David slouches on the edge of the bed, perpendicular to Patrick, unable to look him in the eye.  “Say it again,” he whispers.  </p><p>“I’m so sorry, David,” Patrick responds, his voice cracking.  </p><p>“No, not that.”</p><p>This isn’t how this was supposed to go.  Patrick didn’t want the first time he said<em> I love you</em> to David to be in the heat of an argument, at the height of emotion, or while they were sex drunk and delirious.  He’d texted it thinking David needed time to think, to process, to spiral, and eventually to come back, and it felt safe in writing.  But he’d already nearly messed this up with his flawed logic, and he wasn’t going to risk losing David for a second time today.  </p><p>“I love you, David,” he said, reaching out as David fell into his embrace, broken, sobs wracking his body.  “<em>I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you</em>,” Patrick murmured over and over, kissing David’s forehead, cheeks, and salty lips.  His grip on David tightened as they laid back on the bed, David’s head on Patrick’s chest, his tears having slowed to a whimper.  Patrick’s cheek pressed firmly against David’s soft hair.  “<em>I love you, I love you, I love you.</em>”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. What happened after David's olive branch?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The song fades, but David doesn’t move from where he’s crouched between Patrick’s legs, his hands braced on Patrick’s knees.  He’s a little out of breath, and a little sweaty, but to Patrick, he’s the picture of perfection in that moment, and the words just come rushing out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David’s eyes go wide, his jaw drops, but no sound passes his lips.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick is ready for this reaction. “I don’t expect you to say it back.  You can say it when you’re ready.  It just felt right to me in the moment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He won’t give David the space to spiral, hauling him up onto his lap, and smothering his face in kisses.  David responds readily, hungry for contact after a week spent wallowing, lonely and scared.   Patrick kisses David until he’s squirming, hands pawing at Patrick, desperate to ground himself with Patrick’s touch.  He pulls back, hands on either side of David’s face. “Come home with me.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not a question.  David stands up, offers his hand to Patrick, who takes it and rises from the chair.  They lock up the store, and head out into the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Upstairs at Ray’s, they dance carefully around each other.  The pull of physical want and emotional need jostling each other for priority status.  On one hand, Patrick wants nothing more than to strip David’s leather sweater off and trace up David’s neck with his mouth, and on the other, he knows David’s already stripped bare, and needs the validation, the connection.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When David’s eyes meet Patrick’s and David’s hands begin unbuttoning Patrick’s shirt, he feels the war in his mind settle, accepting that those two outcomes are not mutually exclusive.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>David undoes the top four buttons, and begins sucking a bruise into the pale skin under Patrick’s collarbone.  It makes him moan, and his hips buck involuntarily.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want Patrick?” David asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick tips his head back, exposing more skin for David to kiss, nip, and lick.  He can barely formulate a coherent thought.  Just enough to choke out “You.  Just you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David finishes unbuttoning Patrick’s shirt, untucking it from his jeans, and sliding it off his shoulders.  He pops open the button on Patrick’s jeans, before sliding them down his muscular legs, taking his boxers, too.  Patrick’s cock springs free, hard and desperate from a week of inattention.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gracefully, David drops to his knees.  One hand wraps around Patrick’s cock, and the other runs gently up the inside of Patrick’s thigh.  He takes Patrick in his mouth, and Patrick’s knees nearly buckle from the sensation of the warm, wet movement against the engorged and sensitive tissue.  David bobs up and down a few times, matching the strokes of his hand, before popping off, and gently pushing Patrick back towards the bed.  Patrick complies, lying back, watching David remove his clothing before coming to straddle Patrick on the bed.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick reaches into the bedside table, and passes David the lube and a condom.  David rises to his knees, bracketing Patrick, and with one hand, strokes his own erection slowly, and the other, he works himself open, relaxing easily, ready to receive Patrick inside him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, David opens the foil package, rolls the condom down Patrick’s length, and maneuvers himself until he is in position.  Patrick watches as David throws his head back with a moan as he sinks lower, and lower, and lower on Patrick’s cock.  Their hips eventually flush, David grinds left to right experimentally, re-acclimating to the sensation.  David rolls his hips forward and back, revelling in the way Patrick fills him so perfectly.  Patrick writhes beneath him, knowing this isn’t going to last very long.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick lets David raise and lower himself a few more times, before he bends his knees, plants his feet on the bed and starts thrusting harder.  Harder, fucking up into David.  At an angle that seems to be hitting some pretty amazing spots, if the way David’s face is contorting is any measure.  Patrick picks up the tempo, and David wraps a hand around his own erection, thrusting in time to Patrick’s hips.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick comes with a shout, moments before David comes with an unintelligible moan that sounds an awful lot like a sixteen syllable version of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Patrick.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>David delicately dismounts, collapsing next to Patrick, pressing a kiss to his freckled shoulder.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should go first,” he murmurs against Patrick’s warm skin.  “You know my skin care takes awhile.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick groans, even though he agrees, as he rolls off the bed and to the bathroom, returning within a few minutes and immediately crawling back under the covers.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>David returns from the bathroom 37 minutes later, to find Patrick up and folding laundry, placing it in the drawer.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’d the skin care routine go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rather than answer, David wraps his arms around Patrick’s shoulders and pulls him in for a bruising kiss.  “I love you,” he gasps on a deep inhale, choking back tears that are threatening to fall.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick pulls back, his smile brighter than the sun.  </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. A little coda to the Rollout</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The Benadryl is making David’s brain feel like cotton balls.  He’s curled up against Patrick’s warm body, his unmarred cheek slack against Patrick’s chest.  Patrick’s humming some unrecognizable tune, carding his fingers gently through David’s hair.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why’re you s’nice to me?” David slurs, fighting to stay awake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick stops his humming just long enough to press a kiss to David’s temple and murmur “because I love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the morning, David will react appropriately, but for now, the words flow like molasses through his brain, and he doesn’t have time to process them before he slips into unconsciousness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And if Patrick continues to hold him, stroking his hair tenderly, and finishes humming the entire soundtrack to Andrew Lloyd Webber’s 1986 hit musical </span>
  <em>
    <span>Phantom of the Opera</span>
  </em>
  <span>, David is none the wiser.  </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>What?  It's a really nice soundtrack, ok?</p><p>Credit for the scene goes to DesignatedGrape.</p><p>Credit for the ridiculousness goes to my brain.  It's a wild ride up there.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Alternate coda to the Rollout</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is not connected to the previous chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Patrick was right.  He wouldn’t catch poison oak by delicately dabbing calamine lotion on David’s rashy face.  He </span>
  <em>
    <span>would</span>
  </em>
  <span> however catch poison oak by delicately laundering David’s sweater, where some of the oil must have deposited.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And while David’s reaction impeded nothing more than his self-esteem, Patrick’s rash covered both of his hands, rendering most daily tasks impossible.  So for the last few days, David has been helping with everything from washing his hair to other </span>
  <em>
    <span>private </span>
  </em>
  <span>tasks, and it’s all been so domestic, and David has loved every fucking moment.  He feels needed, and appreciated, and the way Patrick looks at him fills him with so much joy.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been exhausting, though, and finally Sunday evening rolls around, with no urgency to do much of anything with the store being closed the following day.  David orders pizza, which Patrick can handle well enough on his own, and David arranges them on the Ray’s couch with a cozy blanket, and cues up A League of Their Own, the perfect crossover between their interests.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tom Hanks has barely exclaimed “there’s no crying in baseball!” and Patrick is snoring softly, propped up against David’s shoulder.  David can’t resist kissing his forehead gently, and running his fingers through Patrick’s hair.  Patrick snuffles adorably, tightens his grip on David’s arm, and snuggles closer.  The snoring resumes.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>David settles in, periodically checking on Patrick, as the Rockford Peaches battle it out on the field.  As the credits roll, he knows he needs to wake Patrick and get him to the bed.  But before he does, he drinks in the way Patrick’s soft lashes lie against his cheek, and the way the corners of his mouth turn up in a secret smile while he sleeps.  There’s a feeling in his chest threatening to burst out, to be yelled from the rooftops, but it’s a little too scary.  But maybe, maybe it’s safe to whisper, against the border of soft skin and soft hair of Patrick’s temple, knowing the words will go unheard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David finds the words come easily. “I love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And if the corners of Patrick’s mouth turn up a little more, then David is none the wiser. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Sometime before Singles' Week, during a private moment</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>After posting some G-rated tenderness, I had to get back to my roots.  </p><p>If you haven't yet seen <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27166790"> 7 Blankets </a>, I suggest you check it out.  It's done, and will be posted each day for a total of 7 days.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>David grimaces from the overstimulation as he withdraws from Patrick.  He lowers Patrick’s feet to the bed, and then slides off the side and pads to the bathroom.  </p><p>Patrick rolls to his side, taking care to remain on the towel, but letting his knees collapse together on the bed.  He watches David walk to the bathroom, very much enjoying the view. </p><p>The outside of his thigh lands in some cold lube.  He can feel David’s release cooling between his cheeks.  His own come has nearly dried on his stomach.  Patrick is filthy and he fucking loves it.  </p><p>Rachel had never wanted it particular hard, nor particularly fast, and any bodily sound caused her to giggle nervously.  They’d never, ever gone without a condom, though when on the rare occasion that she gave Patrick head, she’d swallow, if only to avoid the mess, and she’d often complain bitterly of the taste.  </p><p>Now, <em>David</em>.  </p><p>David relishes the feeling of Patrick coming in his mouth, his eyes rolling back at the sensation, and never once has done anything less than wipe his mouth like he’s just devoured the best meal of his life.  </p><p>David likes it hard, and fast, but also slow, and deep.  He sometimes chaotically switches between speeds and depths as he plunges into Patrick, because he knows it drives him wild and makes him writhe beneath.  </p><p>And wow, David likes it messy.  He likes it sloppy.  He loves finishing Patrick off with a come-covered hand, after Patrick has fucked up against his prostate and pushed him over the edge.  He loves to lick his fingers clean, and loves the groan that draws from Patrick.  </p><p>David loves the sound of slick skin slapping rhythmically as their pelvises snap against each other, over and over and over.  And any bodily sound that escapes is met with a shrug, or a smile, or a contagious belly laugh, because bodies are weird, and funny, and David just rolls with whatever arises like it’s nothing.  Like it’s natural. </p><p>David has shown Patrick how to love sex.  And Patrick loves David for it.  </p><p>It’s not just the sex, obviously.  It’s the minutiae of their days together, a hundred thousand moments strung together, that have led Patrick to the unequivocal realization that he <em> loves </em> David.  </p><p>David, who is now standing in front of Patrick, with a warm washcloth, and a dry towel.  Patrick watches him as he efficiently but tenderly swipes all evidence from Patrick’s body and pats it dry.  He taps Patrick’s hip, who lifts so David can remove the towel.  </p><p>“How was that?” David asks in a soft voice.  He’s always checking in, always taking care.  </p><p>Patrick studies David’s face.  It’s relaxed, and his eyes are soft.  His hair is mussed from Patrick’s fingers tangling in the locks.  “God, David,” he breathes out.  “I love you.”</p><p>David freezes.  “No, you’re just sex drunk,” he laughs. Patrick immediately reaches out for one of David’s hands, and he can feel it trembling just a little.  “No, I do. You don’t have to say it back.  You can say it when you’re ready.  It just felt right to me in the moment.”</p><p>David sucks both his lips between his teeth. “Mmmm.  The moment when I’m naked, and you know I won’t run.”</p><p>Patrick grins.  “That is correct.”</p><p>“Well,” David starts.  “I love…”</p><p>Patrick’s face lights up.</p><p>“...your eyes.”</p><p>Patrick’s expression remains amused.  </p><p>“I love...your thighs.”</p><p>“David, you don’t have to - “</p><p>“Just...let me…” David stammers.  “I’m...I’m warming up.”</p><p>Patrick can’t help but laugh softly.  “Ok, David.”</p><p>“I love...your hands.  And that tender spot behind your ear.  And your left nipple.”</p><p>“What about righty?”</p><p>“Not as sensitive.  Shhh.  I love your lips.  And the way you make me feel when you kiss me.  Just...the way you make me feel, I love how you make me feel <em> good </em> and <em> worthy.” </em></p><p>David chokes on the last sentence.  He tips his head up to the ceiling, fighting off tears.  </p><p>Patrick moves into his space, his hands cup David’s face, bringing it down so their eyes meet.  "You <em>are</em> good - "</p><p>David takes the opportunity for a brief reprieve from words to crash their lips together, pouring every feeling he can’t quite say yet into the kiss.  </p><p>Patrick feels him take a deep breath before pulling back.  He sees David’s eyes are full to the brim with tears that are determined to fall.  Before they do, David looks at Patrick and the rest of the world falls away.  </p><p>“I love you.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Post Open Mic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks to Olive31 for the quick back and forth on Tumblr to get my brain in a space for writing.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>David hears the bell jangle and the </span>
  <em>
    <span>click</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the lock as Patrick closes the door behind the last patron.  He’s been pacing in the backroom, wringing his hands,  for the last ten minutes, while Patrick patiently talked what’s-her-face through a last minute purchase of body milk and bath salts.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, Patrick slips behind the curtain.  He looks about as nervous as David feels, and the air around them becomes charged with something like nervous anticipation, but maybe in a good way.  A way to which David is definitely not accustomed.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick steps into his space, stopping David in his tracks.  David feels Patrick’s warm fingers wrap around his wrists, stilling him.  Those warm, whiskey-coloured eyes look up through those nearly non-existent lashes expectantly.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So…?” Patrick asks shyly.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>David bites his lower lip.  He can feel tears forming at the corner of his eyes, and he looks up at the ceiling in an attempt to thwart their fall.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I love you,” he manages, barely audible, hiccuping on the last syllable.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick’s head tilts like a goddamn pug.  “You think?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David finally meets his gaze.  “Well, I’m not sure, because I’m realizing I’ve never said that before to anyone except - “</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick’s hands slide down until their fingers interlace.  “Your parents twice and once at a Mariah Carey concert.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David nods.  Three tears - </span>
  <em>
    <span>left, right, left - </span>
  </em>
  <span>slide down his cheek.  Patrick lets go of one of David’s hands to cup his face, swiping one tear-stained cheek with his thumb.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“David?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmmmm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I love you, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David chokes on an inhale as the tears start to fall fast and furious.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“David?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David can’t find words.  He can only meet those warm eyes and hope that’s enough of a response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take me home.  I want to make love to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no urgency, thanks to Ray being away for the night at a closet organization workshop in Elmdale.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>David and Patrick take their time undressing each other, swapping tender kisses as skin becomes exposed.  They relish in the feel of being pressed together, standing, swaying to their own soundtrack, hands running up and down sides and backs, and fingers tangling in hair.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s never quite...been like this.  This gentle.  David’s overwhelmed, but he does his best to keep his breathing even, to stay present in the moment.  Patrick </span>
  <em>
    <span>loves</span>
  </em>
  <span> him.  He just stood up in front of the whole damn town and made it known through song.  And god, he loves Patrick, too.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets himself be walked backwards until his knees his the bed, and then Patrick is laying them down, bracing his arms on either side of David, still kissing.  David arches his back when Patrick grinds against him, and Patrick laughs softly.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s also never been like </span>
  <em>
    <span>this.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Where laughter during sex wasn’t mocking or maniacal because of some pharmaceutical high.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick urges David to turn, to prop himself up on the pillows.  David watches as Patrick maneuvers briefly off the bed, grabs the lube and a condom, and settles between David’s outstretched legs.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>David bends his knees, planting his feet on the bed.  His body can’t help but react when Patrick starts working him open.  Like every moment since they came upstairs, it’s slow, and torture in the best way, and soon David is aching to be connected to Patrick, to be as close as they can possibly get.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally fully sheathed inside David, Patrick pushes David’s thighs up, and slides his calves over his shoulders, so he can lean forward far enough to capture his lips in a kiss.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” he says softly, waiting until David’s eyes meet his.  “I love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David hands scrabble for purchase on Patrick’s hips, urging him to move.  Though the speed increases, the way Patrick thrusts into him is no less loving, and when David can tell Patrick isn’t going to last much longer, he wedges a hand between them, gripping himself and stroking in time to Patrick’s hips.  The sensation that had been building in David’s groin finally reaches its crest and he comes harder than he maybe ever had in his whole damn life, nonsensical syllables morphing into a chant - “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you, I love you, I love you.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Another alt to the BBQ night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
    <span class="header">Rachel</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>Today</b> 8:02 PM</span><br/>
<span class="text">Patty...</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Please talk to me</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time">8:45 PM</span><br/>
<span class="text">You need to talk to him, Patty.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">Not now, Rach.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">He said he needed some time.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">I know.  He told me.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">What?  You talked to him?</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p>Patrick’s phone rings with a tone he hasn’t heard in nearly 5 months.  </p><p> </p><p>“Hi, Rach.”</p><p>
  <em>“Hi.”</em>
</p><p>“Listen. You - “</p><p>
  <em>“No.  Patrick, you listen first.”</em>
</p><p>“O-okay.”</p><p>
  <em>“I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have surprised you.  I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t to fuck things up for you.”</em>
</p><p>“I appreciate that, Rach.”</p><p>
  <em>“I think we need to talk.  In person.  But I can wait.  You really need to talk to David, Patty.”</em>
</p><p>“I don’t know, Rachel.”</p><p>
  <em>“Trust me. I think...I think he loves you.”</em>
</p><p>“You...you what?”</p><p>
  <em>“You heard me.  And I can’t blame him.”</em>
</p><p>“Did he say that?”</p><p>
  <em>“Not exactly.  But close enough that I think the next move needs to be yours.  Now.”</em>
</p><p>Patrick lets out a long sigh.  “I don’t know if I can.  I don’t know what I’ll do if he turns me away.  I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose him.”  He sniffles, stifling tears that are threatening to fall.</p><p>
  <em>"Do you love him, Patty?” </em>
</p><p>Patrick’s voice is barely above a whisper.  “I do. I really do.”</p><p>
  <em>“Then talk to him.”</em>
</p><p>Patrick can do this.  If David could put aside his own feelings and talk to Rachel, then Patrick can be brave enough to take the next step.  </p><p>“Ok.  Thanks, Rachel.”</p><p>
  <em>"Goodnight, Patty.” </em>
</p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
    <span class="header">David Rose</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>Today</b> 9:15 PM</span><br/>
<span class="breply">David, I’m so sorry.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">I know.  You said that already. </span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">Will you come over? Spend the night? Please?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">Did you talk to Rachel?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">Yes</span><br/>
<br/>
</p>
</div><p> </p><p>Patrick watches and waits for three dots to appear, willing them to appear.  He’s so focused on the small screen that he barely hears the soft knock at the door. </p><p>David is on the other side.  Looking a little worse for wear, but he’s here.  He’s here, and he’s looking at Patrick with a mix of hope and anxiety.  He takes a step forward into the house and sets his overnight bag down.  </p><p>“Rachel told me she’d make it right,” David said nervously, chewing on his lip.  “I should have known you’d broken a heart or two - “</p><p>“David,” Patrick interrupts, David’s name slow and thick on his tongue.</p><p>“Hmmm?”</p><p>“Can I kiss you now?”</p><p>“Mmmmhmmm. Please.”  </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Post Girls' Night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Alright.  This is the end of the road.  </p><p>I have two FO prompts to write, but it's likely I'll think of something in between now and then to write.  <br/>Ideas always welcome on the tumblr, who knows what might come up?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Patrick had been a little worried that David was still upset with him for pushing him to the bring with the toilet plungers.  But then, David had come home with him, and fucked him deep and slow, alternating tender kisses with whispers of </span>
  <em>
    <span>boyfriend</span>
  </em>
  <span> until they both tipped over the edge, gasping into each other’s mouths, and shuddering through aftershocks.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clean, and cozy in bed, David’s head is on Patrick’s chest, the feel of Patrick’s fingers running through his hair lulling him to sleep.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick keeps carding through David’s locks, long after he’s certain David is asleep.  David’s brow has relaxed, his mouth has gone slack, and there’s a tiny puddle of drool on Patrick’s ribs.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With the arm draped around David starting to lose sensation, it’s an unsustainable position, but before Patrick shifts his </span>
  <em>
    <span>boyfriend</span>
  </em>
  <span> off and to the side, he takes one, long look at David’s lashes fanned out on his cheek, the bow of his soft lips, and the few freckles that dot his cheeks above his stubble.  It takes Patrick’s breath away.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kisses David’s forehead, at the base of his hairline and whispers “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I love my boyfriend,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> as though trying it on for size.  He smiles.  The words feel good.  Feel right.  And he knows the time will come soon when he can’t keep them to himself anymore.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>David shifts in Patrick’s arms, settling down fully onto the bed, making adorable, sleepy sounds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe a little <em>too</em> adorable to be believable, given the crinkle in the corner of his eyes, and the tiny upturn of his lips into a smile…</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Against my better judgment I have joined the tumblr where you can yell at me about fics and I will shamelessly self-promote to probably a very small audience.</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/cheesecurdsgravyandfries">cheesecurdsgravyandfries</a><br/><a></a></p><p> </p><p>I welcome suggestions, especially for these sort of fics, but you should know that I will eschew anything that requires me to overwrite happy moments in canon with angst.  So, for example, if you ask me to write an ILY that occurred after Singles Week, then that means that something had to happen for that beautiful canon moment not to happen, and that isn't going to be a happy place for me.  Fair warning, I'm not trying to be a jerk, but this is my escape, and I do not find either writing or reading angst to be helpful.  TIA.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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